


Fraying Threads

by Askellie



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Ink is off his paints, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, Soul Stealing, Soulessness, This is terrible for everyone, Underverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26192524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: In the wake of the realisation that Ink can't or won't help restore his Universe, Cross stews in his anger and Ink tries to escape his regrets by avoiding his paints. Unsurprisingly, this doesn't end well when Error turns up in X-tale looking to find what's been keeping his rival so occupied.
Relationships: Crerror, Crink, Errink, Ink/Cross, Ink/Cross/Error, Ink/Error, Sans/Sans (Undertale), error/cross
Comments: 11
Kudos: 125





	Fraying Threads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hj_skb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hj_skb/gifts).



> This work is wholly dedicated to the wonderful HJ, who took my thirsty request for Ink/Cross/Error and made [this gorgeous piece of art](https://twitter.com/hj_skb/status/1299901412143398914). Which only made me more thirsty, so then I had to write a thing. orz

Cross can’t even tell how Error’s strings have adhered themselves to the non-existent ceiling of his world. They make no sense, much like the skeleton himself, who is pouring curiously over the soul he’s managed to draw out of Cross’s chest. He pokes at the mismatched halves, making Cross flinch. He can feel them sawing into him with every minute struggle, scraping flakes of dust away from his bones.

“I haven’t seen one like this b-before,” Error muses, his glitching voice distorting oddly in the empty universe. He idly weaves a few more threads around the soul, making it spin between his fingers. It looks like a butterfly caught in a spider’s web, still twitching and fluttering with a desperate will to live. “Monster half...human half...you r-really are an abomination, aren’t you?

Cross grits his teeth, unwilling to reply. Any chance to cut the threads is gone now. He can’t use his magic or any of Chara’s abilities without the soul in his body. He’s helpless, bound, dangling suspended from nothingness. Trying to reach towards his soul only makes the blue coil around his wrist winch tighter until he feels a hot trickle drip down his arm. It falls to the floor below, landing in a vibrant splatter of indigo against the seamless white.

“It’s weird, but not really s-special,” Error continues with an indifferent shrug that belies the flare of curiosity in his gaze. “I don’t really know why Ink insists on spending all his time with you.”

The blood below them ripples suddenly, the tiny droplets expanding to form a pool far larger than should have been possible. The mixture bubbles strangely for a moment for a shape rises up from it, slowly morphing from a formless blot of liquid into a recognisably skeletal shape.

“Error?” Ink asks, sounding oddly flat. “You don’t usually call me.”

There’s none of his usual exuberance in his tone. In spite of their earlier fight, Cross feels a misplaced stab of concern. He tries to twist in place, struggling to look at Ink, but there’s nothing obviously awry except for the strange normalcy of his eyelights. For the first time, they’re plain, white circles instead of their usual contrasting shapes and colors. It's so unexpected, it almost makes him look like a stranger.

“I didn’t intend to, squid,” Error grouches, looking annoyed. “You’re not invited. G-Get lost.”

“Oh,” Ink says, sounding neither upset nor surprised. His gaze flicks absently towards Cross, but his expression remains unchanged. Neither the oozing blood or Cross’s compromised state seem to bother him. His head tilts absently to the side. “But what are you doing here? There’s nothing interesting in this AU.”

The words cut deeper than expected. Cross stares, thinking of all the times Ink came back to spend time with him, but somehow he doesn’t even qualify as ‘interesting’. Unless Ink is acting? Trying to discourage Error’s interest so the crazed skeleton will leave? Cross desperately tries to convince himself that must be the case even though the harrowing emptiness of Ink’s expression doesn’t fill him with much conviction.

( _Did he ever matter to Ink?_

_ Has he ever mattered? _

_He can’t even fix his own mistakes, why is he even still here?_ )

“There’s not,” Error agrees irritably. “But you come here all the time. Why is that? Care to tell me? Since we’re such good PALS now.”

_ They’re friends?  _ Cross wonders, glancing between them. Error’s smiling, his expression deceptively pleasant. Ink looks strangely distant, but he’s absently moving towards Error like a moth drawn towards the flame of a candle.

“I thought something fun was going to happen,” Ink says. Without inflection it’s hard to read his tone. Is he disappointed? Nonchalant? Annoyed? “But I’m starting to think I was wrong.”

Error stares for a moment, then laughs wildly, a broken sound of madness and staccato stutters. “You thought this abomination could make up for your lack of c-creation? Nah. He’s useless. Although...we could still make it a little fun, I guess.”

Cross expects an objection; some kind of protest. Ink is meant to be his friend. Yes, Cross was angry at him and yes, he may have said some things he now regrets, but surely Ink doesn’t see him as an abomination. He wouldn’t let Error dismiss him as such, right?

But Ink only tilts his head slightly to the side and asks, “What kind of fun?”

Error grins wickedly and spreads his fingers. Cross’s soul is still trapped between his threads, caught in the knotted basket of a cat’s cradle. “This one’s a little more resilient than the other toys I play with. I’d even share with you, if you like. You’re running on empty, Ink. You need a little excitement to pep you up.”

Ink considers this for a long moment. His reactions seem almost painfully slow, like he’s not quite in sync with the world around him. Eventually he offers, “I _am_ bored.”

“I knew it,” Error purred. “I knew you’d s-snap eventually. It’s fine. I can show you how to keep yourself entertained.

With a wave of his hand, the stings holding himself and Cross above the ground start to lower. Error swings easily and effortlessly to the floor, but he leaves Cross dangling slightly too high for his feet to touch the ground, pulling his arms taut above his head. The new pressure drags painfully on his wrists, punishing him for each attempt to break free.

He can’t move much, but turning his head Cross can finally regard Ink properly, and the first detail that jumps out at him is the fact that the usual bandolier of vials across the Guardian’s chest is missing. His paints are gone. He’d only barely managed to follow when Ink had explained the situation of his absent soul, shamelessly relying on Chara to catch the nuances in case he ever needed to understand it better, but what he does remember is that Ink can’t feel properly without the paints. His uncharacteristic tonelessness, his lack of expression, his dull reactions suddenly make a lot more sense.

“Ink,” he says urgently, wrenching against the strings. He still can’t move, can’t shake Ink back to what little sense had, but Ink looks impassively at him regardless. “D-don’t do this. Whatever you’re feeling, it isn’t-”

“Nope,” Error says, and with a snap of his fingers a new assault of strings wind themselves tightly around Cross’s throat. “Toys don’t talk.”

The glitching cords dig into the discs of his vertebrae, slipping with deadly ease into each vulnerable crevice. The soft cartilage tears easily, and Cross winces. The taste of blood wells up in the back of his throat and spilling through his clenched teeth. He tries to yelp in pain but his voice is gone, shredded by the strings. 

“Cross,” Ink breathes against him, leaning in. His body feels cold, lifeless, like a doll’s as he gently touches a finger to the blood at the corner of Cross’s mouth. His eyelights are sharp, but unnervingly cold. “Don’t worry. It’s just a game.”

“That’s right,” Error agrees, the bright tips of his fingers closing around Cross’s soul. The uncomfortable intensity of his touch, the wordless fury and madness and eagerness in it make Cross shudder. “We’re just playing here. So why don’t you tear off those fancy clothes, Inky?

Cross closes his eyes, bracing himself, but despite his best efforts his tears break free and start to trickle silently down his face as Ink reaches for the ties on his uniform.


End file.
